


iconography

by besselfcn



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Age Difference, Blind Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 13:34:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14619656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/besselfcn/pseuds/besselfcn
Summary: It’s not appropriate, this thing they do, for a damn number of reasons--most of them ones that keep Jack up at night. But the one that never does is Hana’s youth; the fiery energy that she brings, that sparks something in him he thought he buried a long time ago. It’s wrong, maybe. He’s a dirty old man, maybe. But he feels alive.





	iconography

**Author's Note:**

> A short, PWP flash fic written for someone on Discord, that I've just now gotten around to posting. Nothing to see here but gentle porn, lads.

“Knock knock, Commander.”

Jack glances up from his datapad to the door, where D.va’s rose-tinted silhouette leans against the frame. She’s wrapped herself already in a soft, flowy nightgown; the edges of it trail almost to the floor, but it’s so loosely draped around her shoulders that the top dives down nearly to her belly button.

“Good evening, D.va,” he says, smooth and even. 

She shuts the door behind her, and he sets his datapad aside.

“Good evening,” she laughs, and takes a step forward, shrugging off the nightgown entirely. “Soldier 76.”

It sounds so mocking, coming from her mouth. Jack could listen to it all day. 

(It’s not _ appropriate _ , this thing they do, for a damn number of reasons--most of them ones that keep Jack up at night. But the one that never does is Hana’s youth; the fiery energy that she brings, that sparks something in him he thought he buried a long time ago. It’s wrong, maybe. He’s a dirty old man, maybe. But he feels alive.)

“Come here,” he half-demands, half-begs, and pats his knee with a firm hand. 

She’s laughing still--seems never to stop, even when she’s talking it sounds like laughter--but she climbs up onto his lap, straddles him with her hands tracing over his chest. He doesn’t touch her, yet, even though his fingers ache to run over the smooth expanse of her skin; she hasn’t let him, hasn’t asked. 

“You look tired,” she remarks, tracing her fingers through his stubble. 

“I’m always tired.” 

It produces a frown from her, that answer. But he can’t, or doesn’t, or won’t, lie to her. 

Her fingers continue up the sides of his face, to his cheekbones, up to where his visor meets skin. They skirt over the edges; he watches her as she chews her lip, considers.

“May I?” she asks finally. 

“Anything,” he answers, and it earns him a kiss while she presses her fingers into the visor release. 

As the visor comes away, neural connections severed, Jack’s head spins the way it always does when his sight is yanked from him. The world plunges into black, and maybe that used to frighten him, once; maybe it still does, from time to time. But not with Hana’s weight on him; not with her fingers carding through his hair, her mouth laying peppered kisses across the thick scar tissue of his face. 

“So handsome,” she muses, and even if she’s teasing him, she means it. 

She sits up straight; he feels her weight shift as she does. Finally, finally, she takes his hand and guides it to her stomach--and it’s all the permission he needs, his hands hungrily searching over her body, over the soft breasts, up past her clavicles, her neck, to her face so he can feel the grin across it. 

“Long day?” she asks, as he drinks in the feeling of  _ her _ under his fingertips. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” is all he says in response, and she hums as she slowly shifts his underwear down enough to free his cock for her. 

“Oh,” she laughs as she takes him, already half-hard, into her hand. “You’re very glad, aren’t you?”

“Hana,” he complains, though he doesn’t know for what; she moves his hands to her breasts, waits for him to start making those small circles he knows she likes before she indulges him.

“Jack,” she says, and slides onto him with a delighted sigh. 

It’s overwhelming, the feeling of her, the soft heat, and he groans too loudly before he catches himself; she laughs as she moves herself up and down, hands now braced against his chest again for leverage. 

He’s speechless, when they do this--before, too, sometimes, and after, rendered blind and mute by her, this all-encompassing force in his life that is Hana Song. But she’s never struck dumb by him; maybe that’s what he likes, after all. Maybe it’s just how she is. 

“God, you feel good,” she laughs. “There’s nobody else exactly like you, do you know? There are plenty of people, nobody like you. Not like this, not like anything. You are incredible. Oh,  _ oh,  _ Jack--oh, Jack,  _ oh, oh-- _ ”

He grips her waist with both hands, so tight he might leaves bruises, and God he  _ hopes _ he leaves bruises, he hopes she’ll look in the mirror tomorrow and see and know that she’s his that he’s hers and that--

“Oh,  _ fuck _ \--”

She pulls off of him at the last moment, strokes him to completion and lets him spill all over his own stomach, his back arching and her other hand braced on his hip. 

“Fuck,” he repeats, his hand searching for her, and she guides his to the side of her face, a quick kiss to the palm of his hand. 

She laughs, even now, in the afterglow, and he thinks fiercely, dangerously, that he’d do anything to keep hearing that laugh. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr &/or twitter at the same name.


End file.
